This Lord of the Rings story is slash fan fiction. That
means it may
contain adult concepts and
sensuality between men.
If you're underage or offended by such things, you have been warned not
to read the fiction.

This
written for a challenge at dave_uncensored at Livejournal for
Ravenrosen. She asked for Faramir/Aragorn story with a little lightness
and humor.

In Bloom

Faramir was dreadfully late for the meeting, embarrassingly
so. His
face felt hot as he approached the doors to the large room which
doubled in the evenings as a sort of banquet hall for the poor souls
who had to attend the meetings during the day.

All eyes turned to him when he entered the room, and he
flushed even more. He looked at Aragorn and gave a respectful nod.

“Forgive my lateness, sire,” he said softly, and took a seat
on the king’s right, barely able to suppress a wince when he realized
he should not have sat quite so quickly.

Faramir realized that Aragorn was pointedly looking at his
neck. A line of bruises circled the flesh there, much of it hidden by
the slightly high collar, but not all of it. He thought Aragorn’s smile
was entirely too self-satisfied.

He would have done more than blush at coming in so late to
such an important gathering and being under such scrutiny, if he had a
different reason for his lateness. He would have at least tried to
explain, had it been mere fatigue, or some kind of emergency, but
picturing himself explaining the real reason only threatened his
composure.

“I do apologize, sire, perhaps if you hadn’t insisted on
taking me, what was it, three times? until approximately four in the
morning, and then been called away this morning without waking me,
well, I could have been the first one here.”

He supposed it would definitely make the morning less dull to
announce that in front of the crowd. Perhaps every meeting from then on
would be livened up a bit.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, and damn
his fair skin for pinking so easily. “Yes, my lord,” he said, “it was a
bit of a late night, but I assure you, tardiness will not become a
habit.”

“Very good,” Aragorn said, still smiling. Faramir held his
gaze until the king looked away, and returned to the matters at hand.

The litanies and arguments and pleadings began, and continued
for what seemed like hours. Yet, between Faramir’s and Aragorn’s
bargains, appeasements and explanations, each merchant left there
satisfied that his or her best interests were being considered.

After all were gone but the king and his steward, they sat in
silence for a few moments, looking over the last of the documents and
signing what needed to be signed. Then each leaned back in his chair
and sighed.

"These meetings are the part of rule I find the most tiring,
Faramir."

"Aye, but they’re almost over. For a while." Faramir was
relieved that they only had two more days of such ceremonies. He smiled
at his king, noting that he did look far more tense than when they'd
arrived. “By the way, thank you for making the time for a quick bath
this morning before leaving, and yet managing to forget to wake me.”

“I had to wash before facing anyone, I looked and
smelled like a wet horse, thanks to you.” His smile faded a little. “I
merely intended to let you get more sleep, and I forgot to ask someone
to wake you. I’m sorry for that. You did look quite fit to be tied when
you came in here this morning, though. I’m going to be tempted to see
that look again, you realize.”

Faramir chuckled. “As long as my reason for lateness is the
same as last night’s, you’ll hear nary an argument from me. Sire.”

They looked at each other, matching grins on each face.
Faramir loved Aragorn’s face, had the first time he saw it, even though
he’d spent months doubting his own motives for feeling that way.

It was no secret that Aragorn was with Boromir when he died,
heard his last words, even seen to his body after death, sent him down
the Anduin. And Faramir had loved no one or nothing, not even Gondor,
more than his brother.

So for months, he wondered if his feelings for Aragorn
originated with Boromir. As if being close to him, would somehow make
his brother’s loss less sharp.

Finally, he realized there was nothing that could dull that
pain, nothing except time, he supposed. And his feelings for Aragorn
were genuine, not born merely in longing for Boromir. Even after that,
it had taken him weeks to truly show it, even though he suspected that
Aragorn felt a similar attraction to him.

Perhaps there was doubt for Aragorn’s motives, too. Guilt over
Boromir’s death, drawing him to the surviving brother. Faramir couldn’t
deny that possibility had occurred to him often, before they became
lovers.

Once they touched, though, all those doubts fled, and Faramir
knew that what they felt for each other was real, and not the product
of guilt, or grief. As he thought about that first time they kissed, in
the middle of the night, in front of the white tree, Faramir found
himself wanting to touch Aragorn again, right there, despite the
lingering soreness that reminded him just how much they had touched the
night before.

“They’re going to want the room shortly, to prepare for the
meal,” Aragorn said, with a sigh. As he shuffled the parchments in
front of him into a sort of pile, his quill fell to the floor. Faramir
lowered himself from his chair to one knee to pick it up, and was
inspired to act on his wish. What was the best way to relax a tense
king, after all?

Aragorn smiled with a mixture of delight and disbelief as the
dropped quill was handed to him, from beneath the table, and between
his legs. Faramir!” the king said in an astonished whisper, but stopped
short when he felt Faramir’s hands on him, then he was drawn into a
warm, wet mouth, and his They’re going to. . . want to prepare this
room came out more like a moan than individual words.

Faramir’s tongue was a wonder, and Aragorn had to fight to be
quiet. He was so close, so close. . . and then the doors opened to a
buxom serving girl carrying a stack of table linens. Fortunately, she
faced the empty end of the long table while Aragorn sat at the opposite
end, and not the side of the table, where she would have seen Faramir
kneeling beneath it. As it was, it appeared Aragorn sat alone, across
the room.

Only he wasn’t just sitting, he was practically writhing in
the chair when she opened the doors. He and Faramir both froze.

“Could you give me a few moments?” Aragorn managed, in a
strained voice. “I’m not quite. . . finished here.” The last two words
came out in a higher pitch than the rest, because Faramir licked him in
a particularly sensitive spot at just that moment, upon realizing that
he was hidden, and the girl obviously had no idea what was happening.

“Yes, my lord, of course,” she said, and when the doors
closed, Aragorn slumped, letting his head fall back as he laughed. His
laughter was cut short when Faramir sucked him in deeply. Aragorn’s
hands clutched the arms of the chair as his lover pulled him easily
over the edge.

Later that night, after they had returned to their rooms,
washed and dressed in finery and shown up at the banquet as was
expected, Faramir, Aragorn and a few of the local merchants sat at that
same table, drinking ale after a hearty meal.

“So, Faramir,” one of the men clapped his shoulder, clearly
made more friendly with drink, “a late night, eh?” He chuckled and
nodded at the rest of the gathered men. “By the looks of your neck, she
must have been quite a spitfire.” The man winked at him, and Faramir
found himself trying not to laugh. He looked at Aragorn, and smiled
sweetly before answering the man.

“She was. A saucy little wench, that one.”

The men barked laughter, not just at the answer, but at
Faramir’s willingness to say anything. He was not known for telling
such tales, so Faramir guessed they considered themselves in his
confidence, which obviously pleased them.

“Looks like she almost ate you alive. Was she pretty? She
wouldn’t have a lonely sister, would she?” Laughter all around.

“She does not, as far as I know,” he joked back. “And she is
quite beautiful. If a bit spoiled. Delicate little thing.”

The merchants all nodded and grinned, as if they’d had many
similar conquests.

“Is that so?” Aragorn asked. “Delicate? Do tell us more,
Faramir.”

“Well, she’s a bit bad-tempered in the mornings. Quite a cross
thing when she’s not had enough sleep. And mouthy, oh, she’s
got a quick tongue.”

The double entendre drew more laughter from the men, and even
Aragorn laughed. Faramir’s fun ended when an argument broke out among
two silk merchants who had too much drink. They were sitting across the
table from each other, and were being held back by a few men on each
side as apparently one had thrown his drink at the other and both
drunk, portly men were attempting to crawl across the table to reach
each other, with no success.

The men who had been laughing at Faramir’s story now ran to
their friends’ sides. Aragorn and Faramir stood, but paused before
rushing in.

“My lord? Should we just throw water on them? Or attempt to
actually talk it through?” he said with a sigh. Before the king had
answered, the men had been pulled in different directions, and were
being escorted out by their fellow merchants, with apologies, which, of
course, Aragorn accepted.

They sat again, and a few of the men returned, eager for their
private audience with the king and the steward in such an informal
setting. Soon the topic had turned from saucy wenches to a particular
stubborn merchant in the lower level, who didn’t want to cooperate with
the other salesman, all for their greater good.

When they’d pleaded their case and rose to leave, Faramir and
Aragorn discussed it softly amongst themselves, and it was decided that
Faramir would speak to the man in the next few days.

“How do you think I should approach the matter with him? He is
particularly obstinate,” Faramir said.

“When you talk to him, I have no doubt you’ll charm him,”
Aragorn said. “The way you charm me.” He smiled and took a sip of ale.

“Are you suggesting I slip beneath his table and curl his
toes, as well?” Faramir whispered, with a smile.

Aragorn spit his ale a couple of feet down the table,
sputtering and coughing. Faramir clapped him on the back, clearing his
own throat and appearing concerned to cover the laugher that threatened
to bubble out of him at any moment.

“Are you all right, sire?”

“Yes, mm hmm, yes, thank you, Faramir, merely tried to swallow
and breathe at the same time. Quite all right, thank you.” He waved off
those who had hurried over to check on him, and managed a sort of
delighted glare at Faramir.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he managed to whisper.

Faramir cocked an eyebrow and did his best to appear menacing.
“I am your successor, my lord.”

The next two days passed at a crawl, as they always did when
the only time Aragorn could manage to spend with Faramir was in the
company of others. Ceremonies and their various duties managed to keep
them apart. And so many issues had come up at the last meeting, that
the entire set of proceedings had been extended another two
days, which Aragorn was sure would feel like an eternity.

On his way to one more official meal, this one he knew would
be with some particularly windy self-important men who never seemed to
get to a point, he spied Faramir in the hall, also dressed in his
finery, on the way to the same sure-to-be-endless meal. He stood in
front of a window, staring out, surprisingly unaware of Aragorn
watching him.

Faramir’s experience as a ranger generally made him extremely
sensitive to his surroundings. It was that awareness, that sense, that
often kept the men alive in the field. Now, though, he stared out into
the night, expressionless, and Aragorn was caught, rapt, watching him.
He was in profile, and the king thought again just how beautiful and
fine a man Faramir was.

Even in grief, he glowed. And grief, he supposed, had brought
them together. At least it had hurried what he thought would have been
their eventual relationship, even without it.

He’d been attracted to Faramir from the moment he’d touched
him to heal him. Not just his appearance, his essence, the spirit of
the man he’d called back from the dark was simply so bright and full,
Aragorn couldn’t help but love him.

But after that, their contact had been mostly official, with
very few private moments between them, and when they were alone, often
the conversation was about Boromir. Of course, Faramir wanted to know
everything, and as difficult and painful as it was, Aragorn gave him
every detail.

When life began to slow, and their duties were less urgent,
the rebuilding and recovery from the war falling into a more steady
pace, it seemed they managed to see each other even less.

Aragorn’s grief, and despite his love for Arwen, his
loneliness, threatened to overwhelm him. He often had great difficulty
sleeping through the night, so it was not uncommon for him to take
walks in the moonlight. And more often than not, he ended up in the
courtyard, at the tree.

And sometimes, before he reached it, he saw a figure standing
there, looking at it as he often did. The first few times, he merely
watched Faramir for a moment before turning back. But one night, a
shroud of unmistakable grief seemed to slump Faramir’s shoulders, and
Aragorn thought the sight of him standing there, alone in the dark, was
the most heartbreaking thing he’d ever seen.

He was drawn to Faramir, and walked up behind him, intending
to offer what support he could. Faramir obviously sensed him there, and
without turning, spoke.

"For so long, we dreamed of the day it would bloom. It’s so
unfair that he never got to see it.”

Aragorn wanted to remind him that Boromir helped to make it
bloom, that if not for his efforts, there would be no tree left, no
city at all. But he knew that no one considered Boromir more a hero
than his brother, and none of those words were really necessary, even
though the instinct was there to comfort him. He might even suggest
that wherever Boromir was now, he could see it.

Yet, he had watched some people try to comfort Faramir with
similar words, and though Faramir appeared gracious and grateful when
they did so, Aragorn knew their efforts didn't have the desired effect.

Those, at least, were better than the ones who did nothing,
because they knew not what to do. While their silence could be
understood, their absence from Faramir's life could not. It seemed that
in their uncertainty how to comfort a man who had lost both his father,
not just in body but in spirit before the man died, and his beloved
brother, they simply avoided the man completely, rather than attempt to
comfort him, and make things worse.

Aragorn would do neither.

He simply stepped up behind Faramir and slowly put an arm
around the man's waist. Faramir turned his head slightly, surprised,
but he did not resist or move away. Aragorn crossed his other arm
around Faramir's chest. And he simply stood there and held him this
way, resting his face alongside Faramir’s.

Faramir took a deep breath, and then everything seemed to
drain from him. He relaxed back against Aragorn and simply let the
tears fall. Aragorn wept as well, not just for Boromir, but for all of
Gondor, Faramir, himself.

When no more tears came for either of them, Aragorn simply
kissed the side of Faramir's face, slowly released him, and walked
away.

They met at the tree after that often during the night, both
awake with worries, or unbeknownst to them, want for each other. Their
talk was little more than idle chatter, but most of the time they
didn't talk at all, merely stood by side looking at the tree, an
understanding and empathy between them as deep and strong as its roots.

One night, Faramir entered the courtyard to see Aragorn
standing before the tree, and like Aragorn had weeks earlier, he sensed
something in his king, perhaps a restlessness, a need, that he could
not walk away from. It was as natural as breathing to approach him from
behind and, without words, embrace the king in the same way Aragorn had
held him.

Neither man moved for a time, and then Aragorn turned within
Faramir's arms. When Faramir felt him move, he loosened his hold but
did not released him, and as Aragorn remained close, it was clear he
had not intended for Faramir to let go.

"Come to regard the tree again, Faramir?"

"The tree draws me here, my lord. As do other things."

Aragorn hesitated only briefly before sliding his arms around
Faramir's waist and kissing him.

He had never known a kiss, or an embrace, that made him feel
as complete as that. And now, watching Faramir look out the window, he
knew he could not wait two more days to feel it again.

Not caring who might walk by, Aragorn walked up behind him and
embraced him gently as he had done before.

Faramir covered the hand at his waist with his own and sighed.
Aragorn’s embrace worked its usual magic, and shortly, his sad mood
lifted. Aragorn sensed this, and pulled Faramir gently into a small
room off the hall. He grabbed him from behind and pressed their bodies
tightly together this time, with purpose, his hand already scrambling
for the waistband of Faramir’s leggings.

“Oh, how I’ve missed my wench,” Faramir teased.

Aragorn answered with a nip to the neck. “I still owe you for
that all that, don’t I?”

“We’ll be late, sire.”

“I’m the king, what are they going to do? Scold me?” His
fingers worked at the fastenings of Faramir’s shirt.

Faramir laughed and batted at his hand. “Oh no, Aragorn, I
just got this damn thing completely hooked, correctly, all the way up
to the neck, you know how long that can take," he protested.

Aragorn ran a finger down the seam on the front of Faramir's
velvety shirt. He made a slight hmpf, then found the waistband of
Faramir’s leggings and with one quick pull, bared Faramir to him. He
slipped a finger into Faramir’s crease, teasing him, and cupped him
eagerly with his other hand.